Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn
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I needed the urgent annulment. I was an apple almost ripe for plucking, and my husband, Shore, was watching – waiting – like a hungry orchard thief.
I gave the apprentice a hands-off glare, tugged my cloak tightly across my front and, aware that the proctor’s neighbours might still raise the alarm, I determined to stay where I was with every sense alert.
No hue-and-cry was coming from the direction of Soper’s Lane and I said a silent prayer of thanks for that. Maybe the foul old fellow was as fearful for his reputation as I was for mine. That welcome thought made my shoulders relax. And, apart from learning that men of all ages were not to be trusted, I had at least gleaned one piece of useful advice. The proctor had told me that ‘my friend’ needed to have her case heard by the Court of Arches, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s especial court for hearing divorce petitions. St Mary-le-Bow, the church, which housed the court on weekdays, was just a few moments’ walk back along Cheapside. Perhaps the Almighty was watching over me, after all. If I went to St Mary’s straight away …
‘Pretty mistress? Hey? Anybody home?’ Lapis-blue garters pranced before my eyes. The glib-tongued apprentice had singled me out again. ‘Pet, you’re not listening,’ he declared with feigned dismay, reaching out to tweak my nose. ‘Come, give your husband a surp—’
‘Exactly my thoughts!’ I exclaimed fervently and elbowed my way out.
One of St Anthony’s wretched sows blundered along in front of me, as though she had some similar mission. At least she cleared my path.
St Mary-le-Bow lay almost a stone’s throw from the alley off Bow Lane where I now lived. Richard Lambard, my grandfather, was buried beneath the church’s nave so that was why my family sometimes worshipped there to pray for his soul. My brothers used to tease me that the steeple was haunted, and if you stood in the churchyard for long enough, you were sure to see a chunk of masonry fall from the roof, and that was Grandfather’s ghost making mischief.
To my relief, the doors of St Mary’s stood open. I crossed myself and prayed to Our Lady the Virgin to give me strength. After all, Our Lady’s marriage had been arranged, too, and I doubt she had cared for St Joseph at first, especially when he was so angry about the Angel Gabriel.
I could, would, do this now – go in, swear on the Gospels that I had been wed against my will and that the marriage had not been consummated. They might insist upon a midwife to examine me, but my body’s evidence would prove I was no liar. Of course, I’d need to move back to my parents’ house and I could not be sure Father would take me in; but first things first. With a deep breath I grabbed up my skirts. Freedom was just steps away.
But I was wrong. A pikestaff dropped obliquely across my path. I had not noticed the sergeant on duty.
‘I have business inside, sir,’ I announced, imitating my mother’s tone when she addressed the household. ‘It’s a matter of urgency.’
The soldier jerked a thumb at a parchment nailed on the door. ‘Plaintiff or defendant, mistress? What time is your hearing?’
‘I … ah … er …’
He propped the pikestaff against the wall and shook his head at me. ‘The rule is you cannot go in unless you are on today’s list.’
‘But I need a marriage annulment, sir. By the end of this week. Today, if possible.’
‘Bless me, young woman,’ he clucked. ‘Have you been sleeping in some toadstool ring? Don’t you know it takes months, sometimes years, to get a hearing?’
Months? Years? My first monthly flow might be only days away.
‘They’ll understand the matter is urgent,’ I assured him, wondering if I could duck beneath his arm, but he was no fool.
‘Listen, first you find a proctor to write your petition, then it has to go all the way to Rome, and the Pope himself must be told of it. His Holiness may say you have a case to be heard or he may not.’
‘But I do. Oh, please, let me through.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Almost fifteen, sir.’
‘Fourteen then. Well, pardon me for asking, but does this husband of yours cuff you around when he’s had a bellyful of ale?’ He peered down, inspecting my face for bruises. ‘Is he unkind to you?’
‘No, sir.’ This was becoming embarrassing. Next he would ask whether Shore had lain with me. Instead he said, ‘Does your father know you’ve come here?’ And that angered me.
‘No, sir, this is my business. I am quite capable of handling it.’
‘I can see that.’ I could tell he was trying not to laugh. ‘So, who is to pay the legal fees?’ He cocked his head towards the door. ‘None of the carrion crows in there will take your part unless you pay ’em. They can’t live on air, you know. It’s business, see.’
How naïve of me. I thought it a matter of justice.
Dismayed, I stared down into the churchyard, biting back my tears, looking so forlorn, I daresay, that the soldier creaked down upon his haunches and took my gloved hands. ‘Give your marriage time,’ he advised, with a kindly tug on the end of my blonde plait that must have been showing beneath my coif. ‘Lovely girl like you can twirl your husband round your little finger if you play it right. Now you go home and make him his supper, eh?’
Someone cleared his throat impatiently behind me. Three churchmen were waiting to pass. My self-appointed counsel snapped up to standing, his chin turning a dull red beneath his stubble. ‘Go home an’ forget all about this, eh?’ he muttered after he had waved them through.
Forget? The rest of my life is staked out unless I cut the ropes.
How easily Life can flick us. Like an idle boy’s fingernail against a tiny fly. We are so fragile, our destinies changed so easily by a quarrel, a smile, a death – or marriage.
I was twelve years old – that’s two years ago – when I was wed to William Shore. He was twenty-six and already a freeman of the Mercers’ Guild when he became my suitor. My father considered him an honest man with good prospects.
Once I reached thirteen, I was sent to live with him. I found him kindly, but whenever he stepped inside the door at the end of the day he seemed to bring a weariness that settled like a dust upon my chatter. He still does. I have no idea how to engage him save to inquire dutifully about his business, and most times he will not speak of it. Nor does he wish me to play music or read to him, save from the scriptures.
He is dull, dull, dull. I don’t mean like a numbskull, but dull like an old coin dug up by the city wall. Maybe some other bride might have brushed the earth away and shined him up, but I do not have that urge, and the thought of him taking my maidenhead makes me shudder. Shore likes the way he is; it is me he desires to mint to his liking, but I’m not a yes-sir-please-you-sir girl.
He chose me for my looks and because I was a Lambard, and he did everything wrong. He and his brother-in-law from Derbyshire, John Agard, inspected me before I even met them. I don’t mean they stared at me across the pews or during a sermon in St Paul’s Yard. No, really inspected. I awoke one January morning to find my night robe up around my thighs and the sheet drawn back. It is quite commonplace for parents to permit prospective husbands to view a daughter naked, but how demeaning.
The bargaining was done swiftly after that. Both Shore and my father were in haste to shake hands on the contract. Shore saw himself acquiring a useful patron, because, besides being a wealthy merchant and influential in the Mercers’ Guild, my father, John Lambard, is Alderman for Farringdon, which contains St Paul’s Cathedral and the rich abbeys of the Franciscan and Dominican Friars. What’s more, Father was also Sheriff of London that year, second only to the Lord Mayor. Anne, my mother, is the daughter of Robert Marshall, a reputable merchant of the Grocers’ Guild.
What Shore did not know when he offered for me was that Father had loaned a huge sum to the Duke of York for